But the doctor ignored the interruption.
“You’re coming out there, Jim Thorpe,” he said deliberately, “or you’ll hand over your guns, and–”
“Consider myself under your arrest, eh?” Jim promptly removed both of his guns from their holsters, and handed them, butt first, to the doctor. “Guess I’ll stay right here,” he said easily. “And I’m glad to hand you those; it’ll save me using them on Smallbones.”
The furious hardware dealer now bristled up, and his mean face was thrust up so that he stared into Jim’s with all the cruelty of his hatred laid bare in his eyes.
“Yes, you ken stay right here an’ we’ll look after you, me an’ a few o’ the boys. You’re a prisoner, Jim Thorpe, and if you attempt to escape, we’ll blow you to bits. We’ll look after you, sure. You shan’t escape, don’t you mistake. It ’ud do me good to hand you a little lead pizenin’.”
“I’ve no doubt,” was all the answer Jim vouchsafed.
But before Smallbones could retort, Peter Blunt, followed by Jake Wilkes and Angel Gay, approached.
“We’ll stay here too, Doc,” he said. “Guess Smallbones’ll need help. You see he isn’t much of a man to look after a prisoner. Anyway, Jim Thorpe’s a friend of ours.”
“Right, Peter, an’ you two fellers,” cried the relieved doctor. “I ken hear the buckboard I sent over for comin’ along. I’ll start right out.” Then he added pointedly, “I guess I’ll leave him in your charge.”
The doctor passed out and was followed at once by most of Rocket’s customers, all eager to investigate the murder for their own morbid satisfaction. And thus only the three friends of Jim Thorpe, with Smallbones and two others, were left with the prisoner.
The moment the doors had swung to behind the last of the departures, Peter Blunt suddenly strode across the room to where Smallbones stood, staring at his intended victim with snapping eyes. So sudden was his approach that the little man was taken quite unawares. He seized him by the collar with one hand, and with the other deprived him of the guns with which he was still armed, as a result of his service on the vigilance committee, and, though he struggled and cursed violently, he carried him bodily to the door and deliberately flung him outside.
“If you attempt to get in here again till Doc returns I’ll throw you out just the same again, if I have to do it twenty times,” Peter declared. Then he turned back to the men at the bar.
“I feel mean havin’ to do it,” he said, almost shamefacedly. “Only I guess things’ll be more comfortable all round now.”
“Thanks, Peter,” said Jim simply, holding out his hand.
Peter took it and wrung it.
“You see he wants to–hang you, Jim,” he said by way of explanation.
“And he’ll do it.”
Jim’s words came so solemnly that the men beside him were startled.
“But–but you didn’t–kill him?” Peter stammered.
Jim shook his head.
“No,” he said decidedly. “But–he’ll hang me–sure.”
“Will he?” cried Peter emphatically. “We’ll see.”
And the startled look in his eyes was again replaced by the shrewd, kindly expression Jim knew so well.
CHAPTER XXXII
THE TRIUMPH OF SMALLBONES
Peter had been talking. Now he paused listening. Jake and Gay turned their eyes toward the swing doors. Silas Rocket, who had availed himself of the respite to wipe a few glasses, paused in his work. He, too, was listening. But the almost mechanical process of cleaning glasses was resumed at once. Not even life or death could long interfere with his scheme of money-making. He had seen too much of the forceful side of his customers in his time to let such a thing as a simple murder interfere with his long established routine.
It was Jim who now spoke. He was the calmest of those present, except perhaps Silas Rocket. He appeared to have no fear of the consequences of this affair to himself. Perhaps it was the confidence of innocence. Perhaps it was the great courage of a brave man for whom death–even a disgraceful death–has no terrors. Perhaps it was the knowledge of what he was saving the woman he loved, which served to inspire him. His eyes were even smiling as he looked into Peter’s.
“They’re coming along,” he said, with one ear turned toward the door.
Peter nodded.
“It’s them, sure,” he said.
“I ken hear the buckboard. It’s movin’ slow,” said Gay solemnly.
“Which means they got him,” added Jake conclusively.
“We’ll have a drink first,” said Jim. Then he added whimsically, “Maybe we’ll need it.”
The silent acceptance of his invitation was due to the significance of their host’s position. And afterward the glasses were set down empty upon the counter, without a word. Then Jim turned to Peter, and his manner was a trifle regretful. But that was all. An invincible purpose shone in his dark eyes.
“They’ll be here in a minute, Peter,” he said, with a shadowy smile. “I’ve got a word to say before they get around. We’ve been good friends, and now, at the last, I’d hate you to get a wrong notion of things. I call God to witness that I did not kill Will Henderson. It’s because we’re friends I tell you this, now. It’s because these folk are going to hang me. You can stake your last cent on that being the truth, and if you don’t get paid in this world, I sure guess you will in the next. Well–here they are.”
As he finished speaking the doors were pushed open and men began to stream in. It was a curiously silent crowd. For these men a death, even a murder, had little awe. They understood too well the forceful methods of the back countries, where the laws of civilization had difficulty in reaching. They had too long governed their own social affairs without appeal to the parent government. What could Washington know of their requirements? What could a judge of the circuit know of the conditions in which they lived? They preferred their own methods, drastic as they were and often wrong in their judgments. Yet, on the whole, they were efficacious and salutary. Life and death were small enough matters to them, but the career of a criminal, and its swift termination, short, sharp and violent, was of paramount importance. It was the thought that they believed there was justice, their own justice, to be dealt out to a criminal that night, that now depressed them to an awed silence.
Three or four men placed several of the small tables together, forming them into a sort of bier. Then they stood by while others pushed their way in through the swing doors. Finally, two men stood just inside, holding the doors open, while two of the ranchmen carried in their ominous, silent burden. Doc Crombie was the last but one to enter. The man who came last was the evil-minded hardware dealer. His eyes were sparkling, and his thin lips were tightly compressed. Now he had an added score to pay off. Nor was he particular to whom he paid it.
The body of the murdered man was laid upon the tables, and Silas Rocket provided a shroud.
Jim Thorpe watched these proceedings with the keenest interest. Never for a moment did he remove his eyes from the dead man, until the dirty white tablecloth had been carelessly thrown over him. He had in his mind many things during those moments. At first he had looked for his own telltale knife. But evidently it had been removed. There was no sign of its hideous projecting handle as he had last seen it. Neither had he noticed any one bearing his blood-stained handkerchiefs. He thought that Doc Crombie had possessed himself of these things, and expected he would produce them at the proper moment.
Somehow he felt a curious regret that Will was dead. It was not a mawkish sentimentality; he made no pretension, even to himself, that the regard that had once been his for Will still existed. But he was sorry. Sorry that the man’s road had carried him to such disaster. He remembered Peter’s definition of the one-way trail. Will’s path had certainly been a hard one, and he had traveled every inch of it with–well, he had traveled it.
Then came the thought, the ironical thought, that after all their paths were not so very wide apart now. They had grown up together, and now, at the end, in spite of everything, death was bringing them very near together again.
But his reflections were cut short by the sharp voice of the doctor. His authority was once more undisputed. He stood out in the centre of the room, a lean, harsh figure. His eagle face, with its luminous eyes, was full of power, full of a stern purpose.
“Folks,” he began, “murder has been done–sheer, bloody murder. When fellers gits busy with guns, an’ each has his chance, an’ one of ’em gits it bad, we call that killing. Fair, square killing, an’ I guess we treat it accordin’. But this is low-down murder. We was told it was a stabbing, but I’ve cast my eyes over the body, an’ I seem to see a different story. Judging by what I found, I’d say Will Henderson was hit a smashin’ blow by something heavy, which must sure ’a’ knocked him senseless, an’ then the lousy skunk did the rest of his work with a knife. Gents, I allow this murder was the work of a dirty, cowardly, mean-spirited skunk who hadn’t the grit to face his enemy decently with a gun, and who doesn’t need a heap of mercy when we get him. That’s how I read the case. All of you have seen the body, so I need say no more on this.”
Then he turned his keen eyes on Jim Thorpe, who had listened closely.
“You, Jim Thorpe, brought us word of this doing. An’ in the interests of justice to his widow, to your feller citizens, your duty’s clear. You got to tell us right here everything you know about Will Henderson’s death.”
There was an ominous pause when the doctor finished speaking, while all eyes were focused upon Jim’s face. There was no doubt but that the majority were looking for signs of that guilt which in their hearts they believed to be his.
But they were doomed to disappointment. They certainly saw a change of expression, for Jim was puzzled. Why had Doc Crombie not produced the knife and the handkerchiefs? But perhaps he wanted his story first, and then would confront him with the evidence against him. Yet his manner was purely judicial. It in no way suggested that he possessed damning evidence.
He looked fearlessly around, and his gaze finally settled upon the doctor’s face.
“I’m puzzled, Doc,” he said quietly. “There’s certainly something I can’t make out. I told you all I had to tell,” he went on. “I was out on the south side of that bluff, for reasons which I told Anthony Smallbones were my own business, when I found Will Henderson lying dead in the grass, a few feet from some bushes. I did not at first realize he was dead. I saw the wound on his jaw, and, touching it, discovered the bone was broken. Then I discovered that his clothes were torn open, his chest bare, and a large knife, such as any prairie man carries in his belt, was sticking in his chest, plunged right up to the hilt.” There was a stir, and a murmur of astonishment went round the room. “Wait a moment,” he continued, holding up his hand for silence. “I discovered more than that. I found two handkerchiefs, a white one, ripped into a rough bandage, and a silk neck scarf, such as many of us wear, was folded up into a sort of pad. Both were blood-stained, and looked as though they had been used as bandages for his face. They were lying a yard away from the body. Have you got those things, because, if so, they ought to be a handsome clue for sure?”
But by the expression of blank astonishment, even incredulity on the doctor’s face, and a similar response from most of the onlookers, it was obvious that this was all news to them.
Doc shook his head.
“Ther’ was no knife–no scarves. But say,” he asked sharply, “why didn’t you speak of ’em before?”
“It didn’t occur to me. I thought you’d sure find ’em. So–I guess they’ve been removed since. Probably the murderer thought them incriminating–”
“A hell of a fine yarn.” It was Smallbones’ voice that now made itself heard. “Say, don’t you’se fellows see his drift? It’s a yarn to put you off, an’ make you think the murderer’s been around while he’s been in here. Guess him an’ his friend Peter’s made it up while I–”
“After I threw you out of here,” interjected Peter coldly. “Keep your tongue easy, or I’ll have to handle you again.”
But Smallbones’ fury got the better of him, and he meant to annoy Peter all he could.
“Yes, I dessay you would. But you can’t blind us like a lot of gophers with a dogone child’s yarn like that. If those things had been there they’d ha’ been there when Will was found by Doc– Say,” he cried, turning with inspiration upon Jim, “wher’s your knife? You mostly carry one. I see your sheath, but ther’ ain’t no knife in it.”
He pointed at the back of Jim’s waist, which was turned toward him. Every eye that could see the sheath followed the direction of the accusing finger, and a profound sensation stirred those who beheld. The sheath was empty.
Smallbones’ triumph urged him on.
“Say, an’ where’s your neck-scarf? You allus wear one, sure. An’ mebbe you ain’t got your dandy white han’k’chief. I ’lows you’re ’bout the on’y man in these parts ’cep’ Abe Horsley as fancies hisself enough to wear one. Wher’s them things, I ask you? Say,” he went on after a moment’s pause, during which Jim still remained silent, “I accuse this lousy skunk publicly of murderin’ Will Henderson. He’s convicted hisself out o’ his own mouth, an’ he’s got the man’s blood on his hands. Jim Thorpe, you killed Will Henderson!”
The little man’s fervor, his boldness, his shrewd argument carried his audience with him, as he stood pointing dramatically at the accused but unflinching man. Doc Crombie was carried along with the rest even against his own judgment. Peter Blunt and Angel Gay, with Jake Wilkes, were the only men present who were left unconvinced. Peter’s eyes were sternly fixed on the beady eyes of Smallbones. Gay, too, in his slow way, was furious. But Jake would not have believed Jim had committed the murder even if he had seen him do it, he detested Smallbones so much.
But everybody was waiting for Jim’s reply to the challenge. And it came amidst a deathly silence. It came with a straightforwardness that carried conviction to three of his hearers at least, and set the redoubtable doctor wondering if he were dreaming.
“You’re quite right I usually wear all those things you say, but I haven’t got them with me now, because”–he smiled into the little man’s eyes, “the particular articles I spoke of were all mine, and, apparently, now they’ve been stolen.”
“Guilty, by Gad!” roared Smallbones.
And some one near him added–
“Lynch him! Lynch him!”
How that cry might have been taken up and acted upon, it needs little imagination to guess. But quick as thought Doc Crombie came to Jim’s rescue. He silenced the crowd with a roar like some infuriated lion.
“The first man that moves I’ll shoot!” he cried, behind the brace of leveled pistols he was now holding at arm’s length.
He stood for a few seconds thus till order was restored, then he quietly returned one of his guns to its holster, while the other he retained in his hand. He turned at once to Jim.
“You’re accused of the murder of Will Henderson by Smallbones,” he said simply. “You’ve got more of this story back of your head. You’ve now got your chance of ladlin’ it out to clear yourself. You’d best speak. An’ the quicker the better. You say the knife that killed him was yours. Yes?”
The man’s honest intention was obvious. He wanted to give Jim a chance. He was doing his utmost. But he knew the temper of these men, and he knew that they were not to be played with. It was up to the accused man to clear himself.
Peter Blunt anxiously watched Jim’s face. There was something like despair in his honest eyes. But he could do nothing without the other’s help.
Jim looked straight into the doctor’s eyes. There was no defiance in his look, neither was there anything of the guilty man in it. It was simply honest.
“I’ve told you all I have to tell,” he said. “The knife that killed Will Henderson was my knife. But I swear before God that I am innocent of his death!”
The doctor turned from him with an oath. And curiously enough his oath was purely at the man’s obstinacy.
“Fellers,” he said, addressing the assembly, “I’ve been your leader for a goodish bit, an’ I don’t guess I’m goin’ back on you now. We got a code of laws right here in Barnriff with which we handle sech cases as this. Those laws’ll take their course. We’ll try the case right here an’ now. You, Smallbones, will establish your case.” Then he turned to Jim. “If there’s any feller you’d like–”
“I’ll stand by Jim Thorpe,” cried Peter Blunt, in a voice that echoed throughout the building.
Doc Crombie nodded.
“Gentlemen, the court is open.”
CHAPTER XXXIII
AFTER THE VERDICT
Peter Blunt stared helplessly up at the eastern sky. His brain was whirling, and he stared without being conscious of the reason.
He breathed heavily, like a man saturating his lungs with pure air after long confinement in a foul atmosphere. Then it almost seemed as if his great frame shrank in stature, and became suddenly a wreck of itself. As if age and decay had suddenly come upon him. As if the weight of his body had become too heavy for him, and set his great limbs tottering under it as he walked.
The excitement, the straining of thought and nerve had passed, leaving him hopelessly oppressed, twenty years older.
The din and clamor of the final scenes in the saloon were still ringing in his ears. It was all over. The farce of Jim Thorpe’s trial had been played out. But the shouts of men, hungering for the life of a fellow man, still haunted him. The voice of the accuser was still shrieking through his brain. The memory of the stern condemnation of Doc Crombie left his great heart crushed and helpless.
His brain was still whirling with all the strain he had gone through, his pulses were still hammering with the consuming anger which had raged in him as he stood beside his friend defending him to the last. And it had all proved useless. Jim Thorpe had been condemned by the ballot of his fellow citizens. Death–a hideous, disgraceful death was to be his, at the moment when the gray dawn should first lift the eastern corner of the pall of night.
The saloon was behind Peter now. Its lights were still burning. For the condemned man was to remain there with his guards until the appointed time.
Peter remembered Jim’s look when he finally bade him leave him. Could he ever forget it? He had seen death in many forms in his time. He had seen many men face it, each in his own way. But never in his life had he seen such calmness, such apparent indifference as Jim Thorpe had displayed.
When the ballot was taken and the doctor pronounced sentence, there was never a tremor of an eyelid. There was not even one quick-drawn breath. Nor was there a suggestion of any emotion–save that of indifference.
Then when the doctor had named the manner of his death–a rawhide rope on the bough of a tree–Jim had turned with a smile to Peter.
“I’d prefer to be shot,” he said quietly. “But there, I s’pose this thing must proceed by custom.”
So Jim received the pronouncement of the final penalty for a crime of which Peter was convinced he was innocent.
It had suddenly set his loyal heart longing with a mad, passionate longing to have his great hands about the mean throat of the man Smallbones. It had set him wild with rebellion against the merciless customs which permitted such an outrage upon justice. He had even challenged the doctor in his fury, on his right to administer justice and accept the condemnation of the men gathered there for the purpose.
In his desire to serve his friend he passed beyond the bounds of all discretion, of all safety for himself. He threatened that he would move the whole world to bring just retribution upon those who had participated in that night’s work. And his threats and violence had been received with a tolerant laughter. A derision more stinging and ominous than the most furious outbreak.
The work would go on. The death penalty would be carried out. He knew it. He knew it.
Then when it was all over, and the prisoner’s guards had been appointed, Jim had begged him to leave him.
“Thanks, Peter, old friend,” he said. And then added with a whimsical touch: “I’m tired to death of hearing your dear old voice. You’ve said such a heap to-night. Get along. I don’t want you any more. You see you’re too big, and you sure take up too much room–in my heart. So long.”
So he had been driven from his friend’s side, and out into the blackest night he had ever known.
Yes, it was an old, old man that now lurched his way across the market-place toward his hut. He was weary, so weary in mind and spirit. There was nothing now left for him to do but to go home and–and sit there till the dawn. Was there no hope, none? There was none. No earthly force could save Jim now. It wanted less than an hour to dawn, and, between now and then–
And yet he believed Jim could have saved himself. There was not a man in that room, from Doc Crombie downward, but knew that Jim was holding back something. What was it? And why did he not speak? Peter had asked him while the farce of a trial was at its height. He had begged and implored him to speak out, but the answer he received was the same as had been given to the doctor. Jim had told all he had to tell. Oh, the whole thing was madness–madness.
But there was no madness in Jim, he admitted. Once when his importunities tried him Jim had shown him just one brief glimpse of the heart which no death penalty had the power to reveal.
Peter remembered his words now; they would live in his memory to his dying day.
“You sure make me angry, Peter,” he had said. “Even to you, old friend, I have nothing more to say of this killing than I have said to Doc, and the rest of ’em. I’ve done many a fool trick in my time, and maybe I’m doing another now. But I’m doing it with my eyes wide open. There’s the rope ahead, a nasty, ugly, curly rope; maybe plaited by a half-breed with dirty hands. But what’s the odds? Perhaps there’s a stray bit of comfort in that rope, in the thought of it. You know the old prairie saw: ‘It isn’t always the sunniest day makes the best picnic.’ Which means, I take it, choose your company of girls and boys well, and, rain or shine, you’ll have a bully time. Maybe there’s a deal I could say if I so chose, but, in the meantime, I kind of believe there’s worse things in the world than–a rawhide rope.”
It was just a glimpse of the man behind his mask of indifference, and Peter wondered.
But there was no key to the riddle in his words, no key at all. Somehow, in a vague sort of way, it seemed to him that Eve Henderson was in a measure the influence behind Jim. But he could not see how. He was well aware of Jim’s love for her, and he believed that she was less indifferent to him now than when Will had been running straight. But for the life of him he could see no definite connection between such a matter and the murder. It was all so obscure–so obscure.
And now there was nothing left but to wait for the hideous end. He lurched into his hut, and, without even troubling to light his lamp, flung himself upon his bed.